Free Devil Black by Laura Strickland

subsided, “I might always find you thus—with your beautiful breasts bare and your body ready to welcome me.”
    “Do you?” she whispered, striving to regain her wits and her composure.
    “Oh, aye. But I suppose such a thing would shock even my hardened warriors, or dissolve them in jealousy.” He tangled his fingers in her hair. “You are a bonny thing—for an English flower.”
    “Only half English,” she confessed. “My mother was a Scotswoman.”
    “Is it so? That explains much, including the beauty of your red hair.”
    He calls me beautiful, Isobel thought with a rush of dazed amazement. Either he thinks it also, or he is a damn fine liar.
    The door of the chamber flew open. Isobel, lying brazenly naked atop the blanket with only select parts of her husband’s body covering her, stiffened in alarm and then tried to hide herself.
    A man appeared in the doorway, likely one of those rough individuals Isobel had seen the day before. He stared his fill at the scene on the bed.
    Dougal, rounding on him, snarled, “What is it? Have you no more sense than to interrupt a man on his bridal night?”
    “’Tis no longer night,” the man replied insolently. “And MacNab’s agent is downstairs. They are scouring the country round about for his son’s lost bride.”
    Dougal laughed. “And they came to me?”
    “They are asking everyone.” The man still plundered Isobel with his eyes. “A wrecked coach has been discovered and dead servants found.”
    Dead? For the first time in hours, Isobel’s thoughts strayed beyond the confines of the bed.
    Dougal got to his feet, utterly careless of his nakedness. He reached for his sword before his clothing, and Isobel was struck by the picture he made, wild and graceful, with the bare blade in his hand.
    “They search for Mistress Catherine Maitland?” he asked, with a wicked glance at Isobel. “Certainly I shall help them search, for she is not here. Only my wife resides beneath this roof. Now, Dermott, get your filthy eyes off my woman!”
    The man withdrew. Dougal dressed quickly, the smile still hovering about his lips. When he finished, he turned back to Isobel.
    “Wait for me,” he bade. He leaned down, kissed her fiercely, and marched from the room.
    Isobel sat where she was in the bed, her head clearing slowly. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if with shock, and drew the blanket about herself.
    What now? The man had gone from the room, apparently taking his magic spell with him. She felt released from a kind of madness. What had she been thinking these hours past—marrying a stranger, indulging in round after round of wild pleasures with him. Now she found herself clothed only in her hair, every inch of her body tingling and, were she honest, still crying out for him.
    He must, truly, be some sort of devil. Only such could possess his masculine beauty, his skill, and the ability to make her forget her past and consign her future to the unknown.
    She drew a breath and then scrambled from the bed, went to the washstand, and poured from the ewer of water, which was cold. She deserved cold water, she told herself, and a bed of nails. She washed and then climbed into a crumpled morning gown. She still struggled to put up her hair when another knock sounded at the door. Before she could reply, it opened.
    MacRae’s sister, Meg, stood there. She bore a tray and entered the room without invitation.
    “I brought you breakfast,” she announced. “No doubt you need it.”
    No one could ever question Meg was Dougal’s sister, Isobel reflected. They shared the same black hair, the same almost shocking beauty, and the identical air of self-possession. Isobel found it difficult to believe Meg came to her now out of charity. Her expression looked too cold and her eyes, moving to examine Isobel, the room, and the bed, too merciless.
    “So,” she said, setting down the tray. “You survived your night with the Devil Black, then? I will confess, I had some